


The fight

by TheMagicMeep



Series: Trust and a lack thereof [10]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Background Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMagicMeep/pseuds/TheMagicMeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every couple has their squabbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	The fight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [losthitsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthitsu/gifts).



> Very late Christmas present for losthitsu. She asked for jealous France and this was what we ended up with

France does not like to think of himself as a jealous man, envy is such a horribly _ugly_ emotion and he does not believe in indulging it. If his fingers tighten around the stem of his wine glass and his lips press together in a thin line it is only due to the awfulness of the party and nothing whatsoever to do with all the happy couples around him and the empty seat beside him.

England would call Frances black mood a tantrum and no doubt he would find the whole thing very amusing, but France himself doesn’t really _care_ about what England thinks. However the soggy little island would delight in mocking him so it is a good thing that England is too busy glaring daggers at Spain to pay attention to what his oldest and dearest enemy is doing.

The room is long and bright but far too _American_ to Frances mind, the music is _American_ , the food is _American_ and perhaps most distressingly the _wine_ was _American_. But neither his fellow nations nor the humans scattered about the hall seem at all bothered, too absorbed in their own intrigues and petty amusements to notice anything else.     

Or perhaps he is just sensitive to it, alone and abandoned as he is.

Prussia has Hungary and Austria to keep him company and Germany to wind up, Spain has Romano to fuss over and his brother Portugal to protect from England’s wandering hands but France is alone tonight. It rankles with him, he is after all France and he could have his pick of partners for tonight’s party but the only one he actually wanted had left him to it. It was embarrassing and France has felt the stares burning into him since he’d first stormed into the room. Though his scowl had kept all but the most persistent of pursuers away, which was a blessing as it left him to sulk and drink his wine in peace.   

It has been hours now since Scotland had stormed off and he hopes she’s cooled down enough to return to their shared hotel room. Though part of him fears that he will return to an empty room and a cold bed as Scotland had acted on her threat and gone home. It is not an appealing notion.

His phone remains silent, Scotland having ignored his last few calls and not answered any of his texts since their fight. France tells himself he isn’t worried and he doesn’t care. He’s lying.

But the room’s polished floor and artificially bright lights are giving him a headache and France isn’t all that sure how much more of this party he could take before he did something he may regret in the future. So he stands, smoothing down his suit jacket and fixing his hair as he does so and wanders over to offer his excuses to America and finally make his escape.

America, bright and young as he still is looks disappointed when France offers his goodbyes and apology for leaving in the middle of his party. But he says nothing on it merely clapping the other nation on the back and thanking him for coming before he turns back to his heated discussion with Japan and forgetting Frances presence immediately.

So France turns his back on all the bright lights, the chatter and the stares and slips outside, intending to call a cab and go back to the hotel and whatever he would find there. He doesn’t expect the rough hands that spin him about or the aggressive and very intoxicated form of England to step up into his face.

The island nation’s smart suit looked a great deal less sharp than it had when he had arrived and his hair was sticking up in every direction possible. His green eyes were just slightly glazed but France knew better than to assume he was drunk, England rarely was quite as drunk as people assumed he was.  

“What the fuck did you do?” England snarls, his accent slipping into something rougher and his breath reeking of whisky.

But France is tired and he really has neither the time nor the patience to deal with England and his theatrics so he pushes the already unsteady nation away. “Has your husband become tired of you already _Angleterre_?” he snips watching warily as England’s glare becomes sharper “dealing with a drunken lout such as yourself is hardly the most entertaining way to send the evening”.

“My sister, frog” England hisses not rising to the bait at all, “where is she?”

France opens his mouth to reply with something smart and cutting but then the fact that he _doesn’t_ know where she is interrupts him and slips tensely out of his mouth before he can think to stop it. England stares at him and France whirls about to leave before the younger nation can say anything but he is too slow and England grabs his collar and yanks him back.

 “Find my sister and fucking apologise for whatever you said or I swear to God I will cut your balls off and feed them to the ravens” he says, his voice low and threatening and a little of the steel that makes England a nation to be feared showing through.

“Why all this worry over her suddenly?” France growls refusing to be cowed, “you never seemed to care about her wellbeing before”.

England’s fingers curl into fists and his impressive eyebrows sweep down dangerously, “she’s my sister you bastard and I don’t give a flying shit that she believes that you’ve changed.” England steps back glaring and continues “remember that I _know_ you France and it’ll take more than pretty words to convince _me”._

“I assure you I have no intention of hurting her” France offers flatly, crossing his arms over his chest “have some faith _Angleterre_ ”.

“Faith in _you_? “ England snorts disbelievingly and shakes his blonde head, “well at least I doubt you have ever truly gone out to hurt anyone in your _relationships”_ his lips twist in a humourless smile “… well except me that is”.

France flinches, “Arthur…”

“I know I know we don’t talk about that” England pauses to take a deep breath before continuing, “but you will _not_ do the same to Scotland, she loves you for some unknown reason and if you break her heart again I will break you, savvy?”

“ _Oui”_

“Now piss off and fix it, I have drinking to catch up on and a husband to save.”

France has never really paid all that much attention to England’s threats so he refuses to dwell on them all that much, but he decides to walk back to the hotel rather than call a cab to give himself time to clear his head and work out what he wants to say. He is not the only one to blame here; Scotland is all too good at digging her claws in when she is hurt and some of the blame for the fight lands on her shoulders. They are both at fault and he has no idea what he should say if Scotland is still there when he arrives, or even if he should even say anything at all.

Though America’s party is not far from the hotel it still takes France awhile to walk there, not that he is hurrying. The night is a clear and dry one, if a bit cold and the streets are well lit but almost abandoned and the walk itself is almost pleasant.   

When France finally finds his way back to his hotel room, he stands outside it for a second gathering the courage to open the door and face whatever he finds within.

But inside it is warm and Scotland is there, curled into a small ball facing away from him. Her face is hidden by her long hair and she has wrapped herself tightly in blankets at some point. The dress she was meant to have worn that night has been picked up; it’s no longer lying thrown across the floor and instead hangs neatly in the open wardrobe.  

Her head snaps up when she hears him enter and his heart clenches painfully when he picks out the puffiness surrounding her eyes.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be back” she admits hesitantly, her voice rough as she sits up and rubs at her eyes. France hovers at the door, uncertain of what to do, he’s not sure if he should speak yet he knows that they should talk. There should be apologies made at least, but not tonight he thinks. So he just stands awkwardly until Scotland finally sighs “come to bed you daft sod”.

When he still hesitates Scotland grumbles, “we’ll talk in the morning if it’s bothering you so much.  Now take that off and get over here”.

He does as he’s told, draping his clothes over a chair and joining her in the bed. She doesn’t curl close to him as she is normally wont to do but even in the darkness he can sense her relax, though when he tries to speak she interrupts him tiredly, “in the morning Francis”.  

The room goes silent then, apart from their breathing and the occasional rumble of cars from the street below and Scotland remains still and quiet facing away from him. He thinks she’s fallen asleep so he believes it safe to lean over and press a kiss to her shoulder.

“I’m sorry”

“So am I”


End file.
